


The Root of All Heartache

by rixie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Hermione Granger, Bed-Wetting, Caretaker Sirius, Classification trope, Dolores Umbridge is Her Own Warning, Dom/sub, Fluff, Gen, Good!Dumbledore, Harry Potter Needs a Hug, Harry and Hermione's Cute Friendship, Harry in Denial, Hogwarts Fifth Year, Hogwarts students are all Dumbledore's grandchildren at heart, Infantilism, Neville Longbottom Needs a Hug, Non-Sexual Age Play, VOLDEMORT GETS TKO'D, the other classifications are a secret mmmkay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-24
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-05-26 21:29:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15009836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rixie/pseuds/rixie
Summary: Objectively, Harry knew this moment was always going to come. Everyone knew the Testing took place in fifth year, but his life has been a whirlwind of bad decisions the past four years, and it its mess he'd just... forgotten.Now, Harry is left navigating a world that's moving almost too quickly for him to keep his head above the current.His friends are changing, Voldemort is still out there, the Order is up to something, and Dumbledore won't even glance his way.To top it off, avoiding this stupid 'mandatory Test' is proving to be difficult.This isn't how he wanted fifth year to go.Expectation is the root of all heartache- William Shakespeare.aka that one classification fic where Dumbledore gets it together and everyone we love lives. canon divergence from the beginning of fifth year to the end.





	1. A Confession

**Author's Note:**

> I've seen several other HP fics with this trope, and they usually have a lot of similar themes (Severus/Lucius/The 'Dark Side' is good/Dumbledore's a bad doggy/Ron & Hermione & everyone else as side/non-existent characters). 
> 
> **This story will be as different from that as feasibly possible.** I'm trying to keep this relatively in line with JK's actual Order of the Pheonix book, so... we'll all discover together how that goes lmao.
> 
>    
> Anyway, for reference sake:  
> Gad = General/Neutral/no specialised classification. It's supposed to be colloquial British, and I can't remember where I first read the term but I did not come up with it.  
> Littles are also known as Sprogs because... it's 1990's Britain, idk just go with it.  
>   
> Also the word 'grouping' will often be used in place of 'classification' because I think 'classification' feels too clinical for a bunch of 15 year olds.

Harry's first week back at Hogwarts had gone unprecedentedly awful. 

 

He knew fifth year was supposed to be hard, content wise, but this was bordering on unbearable. Hagrid is gone, Snape is already having a go at him, and his new Defence teacher is a menace who's more interested in convincing the whole school that Harry's a liar than actually teaching them anything of substance. 

He's already got a weeks worth of detention with Umbridge to look forward too, and so much homework that the thought of it makes his stomach churn with nervous energy.

To top it all off, Hermione and Ron cannot be in a room together without wanting to bite each others heads off, and it’s starting to drive Harry insane. He had snapped at them earlier; the anger inside him that has been constantly simmering since summer blazing unexpectedly, and the vision of Hermione and Ron’s shocked faces offered him just as much satisfaction as guilt.

He'll apologise late, once the anger he’s still feeling has fully died down, but right now he just needs some quiet time.

He’s had a stressful, _awful_ , day and he’s elected to spend the last few hours of it sitting on the rocky shore of the Black Lake, wishing futilely that he were back at Grimmauld Place. He wants to be home with Sirius and Mad-Eye and the Wesley’s; even the company of bloody Kretcher is preferable to Hogwarts right now.

 

But truthfully, there is one moment about today which is bothering Harry more than all the other moments put together.

Objectively, Harry knew this moment was always going to come. Everyone knew the Testing took place in Fifth year; the knowledge of it loomed over them for the first four, as they watched older year levels go through their own tests and come out _different_.

But his life has been a whirlwind of bad decisions the past four years, and it its mess he'd just... forgotten.

Because of that huge blunder, Harry got a very forceful, very unwanted, reminder this morning when McGonagall rounded up all the fifth year students so she could explain to them how the Testing is going to be conducted this year.

 

He feels like an idiot for forgetting.

And for allowing himself to be caught off-guard. And for not having a plan of action.

Every time he closes his eyes Voldemort is there – smirking at him with sharp teeth and a glowing crimson gaze. He relives Cedric’s death, over and over; each night helpless to watch as the green spell hits a chest covering in patriotic yellow and black, and his friend never moves again.

Being suspended like this, in a constant state of insecurity and pangs of regret, was exhausting.

 

Without warning, the scar on Harry's forehead flares with pain. He squeezes his eyes shut and clutches both hands over his forehead and tight as he can until the sharp stabbing sensation slowly fades again.

"Ouch." He mutters, rubbing the scar.

The bouts of pain have been progressively getting more frequent since the start of summer. He's not sure if he should tell anyone, and even if he wanted too, he's not sure if he has anyone to tell. Mad-Eye warned him that people are probably checking all the mail coming to and from Hogwarts, so he can't risk owling Sirius for advice. Ron and Hermione would just hound him about telling Dumbledore, and Dumbledore hadn't spoken to Harry since he returned from the final Tri-wizard task with Cedric Diggory's body in his arms.

Since then Harry’s tried several times to start a conversation with the Headmaster, so if anything, Dumbledore’s actions indicate he’s been deliberately avoiding Harry.

Harry… doesn’t know how he feels about that. Angry, of course, but also confused and hurt, and a wild array of emotions in between.

Is Dumbledore punishing him for something? Does he blame Harry for what happened at the graveyard? Perhaps he blames Harry for the way the papers have been slandering his name non-stop for months. If Harry had just waited to tell Dumbledore what happened in the graveyard, waited until they were in private, then none of this would have happened. 

  

The unexpected sound of gravel crunching under foot makes him swivel around, wand at the ready. He lowers it when he sees who it is.

“Oh hello, Harry.” Neville calls as he carefully steps over the larger rocks surrounding the shoreline. “Didn’t expect to find you out here.”

“Be carefully,” Harry calls back immediately. “That one is slip-”

Neville’s foot, which was in the process of being placed down, skates across the surface of a damp rock, forcing the boy off balance. Neville startles, arms scrabbling for purchase on other rocks, legs forced at an uncomfortably wide angle. He just manages to save himself for going completely arse-over by digging his fingers into the crevice of a nearby boulder.

Harry winces. That looked painful.

“Ouch.” The other Gryffindor whimpers quietly, inspecting his torn up palms once he’s found his footing. As far as Harry can, tell they’re not bleeding; just scraped to buggery and probably stinging like all hell.

Neville scrambles over the last of the rocks separating them and collapses next to Harry, his hands tenderly cradled to his chest.

“Let me see,” Harry demands, already reaching. Neville holds out his hands obediently.

As he had anticipated, they aren’t bleeding, but they are rubbed raw and inflamed, with little bits of grit stuck in the deeper scratches. All in all, a nasty injury, but hardly a worrying one.

Harry places his wand over Neville’s palms.

“ _Episkey_.” He incants.

The tip of his wand glows orange and almost instantly Neville’s injuries seem less red, with some of the cuts beginning to knit together. Well, that’s a relief. Harry wasn’t actually sure if this spell would work on scrapes, because he’s only seen it used once; performed by Madam Hooch after Creevey got hit in the face with a bludger during Quidditch tryouts last year.

“Thanks,” Neville mutters, pulling his hands back and tucking them under his cloak protectively. Not another word is passed between them as they stare out over the glistening water. Harry can see hippogriffs soaring above the Forbidden Forest surrounding the other side of the lake. The giant squid is splashing happily near the docks, where a few first year students are tossing it bread.

The water stirs and ripples in the breeze, lapping lightly at the edge of the rocks near their feet. As serene as the lake looks, Harry knows, first-hand, that there was far more going on beneath the surface that one could imagine. Deep, deep down, where the light could barely permeate and the water chocked with the _weight of it's_ _presence_ -

Harry allows the thought to drift away before its tendrils can pervade his mind. He returns to watching the hippogriffs, their graceful swooping lulling him.

Neville is first to shatter the tranquillity.

"Are you scared about the Testing?" He asks, so bluntly that it makes the indignation in Harry rise up, but before he can snap back a surely nasty response Neville continues with, "I know I am." 

Harry deflates. Of course Neville isn't trying to deliberately poke at Harry’s insecurities; he's just trying to connect with someone. Neville doesn’t have a lot of friends to talk with, so finding anyone who will listen must be hellish. It seems like Harry is constantly on the defensive these days, never quite sure who genuinely wants to help him and who's snooping for a juicy bit of gossip about mental Harry Potter. 

Even his own housemates have turned against him because of the nonsense being printed in the _Prophet._

"I'm not scared, I just-" Harry breaks off, staring at the rocks underneath him. He absentmindedly runs his hands across them, feeling their sharp edges dig into his palms.

"Just what?" Neville asks quietly.

Harry picks up a rock at random. He holds it in his hand, just to feel its weight, and then tosses it as hard as he can. "I just don't want people to expect more things from me."

The rock splashes almost silently into the lake.

 

When he turns to look, Neville is frowning down at his own hands. He seems conflicted and weary and young. Younger than a fifteen year old has any business looking – but then again Neville has always been the tiniest in their year level, and puberty doesn’t look to be dawning for him anytime soon.

"What about you then, Nev?" Harry tries to drum up a cheerful tone. "Why are you scared of this silly test?"

Finally Neville looks at Harry, eyebrows pulled together and hair falling across his forehead.

"I-I think I know what I'm going to be Tested as."

Harry blinks. Never would have he expected _that_ to be Neville’s response; he was honestly imagining something more along the lines of ‘what if I’m grouped as something I don’t want to be’, or ‘what if everyone makes fun of me’.

The same questions everyone wonders to themselves, deep down.

"...Really?" Harry asks after a beat.

Neville just nods sadly, nervously tearing at bits of weed growing between the rocks.

He looks so _small_ in this moment, eyes downcast, hunched in with an air of defeat, and Harry can't help wondering about the things Neville has been through – to make him like that. Immediately, he's reminded of Mr. and Mrs. Longbottom existence, and the evil acts that Voldemort’s sycophants committed. ' _Better dead than what happened to them_.' Moody had said as he had shown Harry a picture of the original Order of the Phoenix over the summer.

Maybe there are worse things than having murdered parents.

 

Before Harry can fall too deeply into his maudlin thoughts, Neville bites him bottom lip and begins to stutter.

“I-I’ve sometimes had problems… a-at night time? And I overheard Professor Flitwick saying to Professor Mcgonagall t-that- ah- night time problems are a sure way to tell if someone’s gonna’ be tested as a Sprog … I-If you get what I mean.”

Yeah, Harry knew what he meant. Good grief, this conversation _really_ isn’t going the way Harry would have predicted.

"But I’ve never told anyone!” Neville blurts out. “I was so ashamed when it started- I knew Grandmother would be _so mad_ if she found out, so- well- every day I would sneak down the service corridors and spy on the house elves doing the laundry… until I knew the cleaning spell perfectly. Took a y-year, but I leaned it.

"It was the only spell I knew how to do until I came to Hogwarts,” Neville continues quietly, “which I know is kind of pathetic."

For a wizard who has spent his whole life around magic, maybe it was kind of pathetic that Neville never picked up on any other spells as a child. Harry knows Ron knew some spells before coming to Hogwarts - had witnessed his lacklustre attempts on the train when they first met, in fact. Hermione could do several perfectly even though she's a muggleborn and thus had no exposure to magic, but she's  _Hermione_  and therefor ineligible for comparison. But for a Sprog - a Little - it's probably normal. Now Harry thinks about it; it's probably normal for Sprogs to have an uncontrollable and untrained magical core? Like a real kid? He's never met one before so he honestly has no idea.

Neville finishes, “And now everyone probably thinks I’m going to be Tested as a G-Gad, or a Sub and I’m just- I- what if they think I’ve been lying to them and- and hate me?” He breaks off, face in his hands; pure misery in every line of his body.

The site makes Harry’s heart ache, just a little bit, but he also feels a pang of distain. Sometimes, Neville emulates all the aspects of Harry that Harry has tried hard to pretend don't exist, and it’s so confronting it makes it difficult to stand his presence.

Perhaps that makes Harry a terrible person. He's certainly self-aware enough to recognise that Neville deserves better, especially for such a raw conversation.

"I didn't know any spells until I came to Hogwarts," Harry offers, attempting to be soothing. _I didn't even know magic was real until a couple weeks before_ , he decides not to add. “And no one at Hogwarts is going to think you were lying Neville, no matter what you get tested as. Trust me, yeah?”

After a few moments, just the buzzing of cicadas filling the silence, Neville peaks between his fingers and smiles shyly at Harry. It's small and hesitant, but full of gratitude and the sight of it makes Harry’s heart swell with fondness. 

Then Neville’s face drops again. 

"My grandmother's going to kill me." He whispers, and well... Harry has no idea what to say to that, because he's hardly ignorant to the existence relatives who hate you for things you can't change.

So they sit for many moments, together but apart, both stuck in their own throughs, both commiserating about their less-than-idea lives, before Neville roughly sits up.

"We should head back," he says. "It'll be curfew soon."

Harry sighs. He'd like to stay out here much longer and he could get away with it too because he bought the invisibility cloak. But he'd be a pretty shite friend if he let Neville go walking around the grounds by himself, especially this close to dusk. Neville would probably trip on a mushroom and smash his skull open.

"Yeah.” Harry mutters, standing up and brushing off his cloak, “Let's go."

 

It's not until later; just as they're just about to step into the courtyard surrounding the north-eastern entrance Harry realises something.

"Hey, Nev?” He starts, “Can you teach me that cleaning spell?"

Neville comes to a halt and shuffles his weight from one foot to the other.

"S-sure Harry," He stutters, visibility nervous. "I'm not very good at teaching- but I can still try! I'd like to help you, 'cause you're my friend and everything, r-right? I'm just trying to say don't get your hopes up because-"

"I understand, Neville." Harry expects to feel a pinch of annoyance as he cuts off the babble, but it surprisingly never comes. "Just show me what you can."

Neville nods hesitantly and pulls his wand out. He stares at it for a moment, before carefully adjusting his own grip and then pointing it towards a nearby bench.

“Like t-this,” He says, “ _Tergeo_.”

As he speaks he flicks his wrist upwards and too the left slightly, and a bright blue wisp of light shoots out the tip of his wand. As the light makes contact with the intended target, it seemingly chases away a layer of rainwater still covering the bench from this afternoon’s shower, leaving the bench completely clean and dry. 

“Wow, nice work, Nev.” Harry remarks, mostly for the benefit of Neville's nerves, before turning towards a small griffin statue on his left.

“ _Tergeo_.” He incants, flicking his wrist the same way Neville did. The blue spell is forced from his wand, swirling over the statue like oil on water, before evaporating into the air.

Harry lays his palm upon the rough and weathered stone of the griffins’ wing, and as expected, it’s completely dry.

Neville smiles at Harry, “You did it!”

Harry shrugs in response, tucking his wand away.

“You’re a better teacher than you think, Nev.” He offers, knowing full well his own magical abilities had more to do with it than Neville’s somewhat lacklustre instructions.

Regardless, he’s grateful that Neville offered to help at all. These days, most of the school would just hex him and then run off to tell everyone how pathetic Harry Potter is; unable to do a simple cleaning spell.

 

It’s nice to know he still has a few friends at Hogwarts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Neville.
> 
> Hope you all enjoyed the first chapter. It's a bit bland, but it gets the ball rolling.
> 
> If you really want to know what everyones classification is going to be before you decided whether or not to continue reading, just leave a comment asking below and I'll tell you!
> 
> I'm still tossing up Malfoy's, but the other mains are set to go~


	2. A Schedule

Madam Pomfrey releases the schedules at the end of the second week. 

 

Hermione gasps when hers is dropped into her lap at breakfast. Ron glances at his in disinterest before poking it aside so he can reach the boiled eggs.

Harry stares at the dreaded letter.

Off-white envelope with his name inscribed across the front in emerald ink. It’s unexpectedly innocent looking - considering what it contains.

He doesn’t pick it up and tear into it like his fellow year-mates are doing. Around him they’re chattering with excitement, comparing their letters to their friends, but Harry can’t do anything except sit completely still. He doesn’t even dare to breath.

"Are you alright, Neville?" The voice of Dean Thomas breaks through Harry's frozen state. Harry glances along the table only to see Neville looking more than a little green around the gills, clutching his schedule with an expression of pure terror on his face, whilst Dean hesitantly lays a hand on his arm. 

Neville abruptly stands, bumping the table as he does so - much to the indignation of his neighbours, and  _flees_  out of the Great Hall like a troll is on his tail. Fellow Gryffindor's and even a few Hufflepuff's stare after him in consternation before disregarding the strange behaviour and returning their attention back to their meals.

Neville’s always been that sort of weird, after all.

"Oh, poor Neville." Hermione sighs, placing her own letter down. 

Ron looks at her likes she's grown another head, fork overfilled with scrambled eggs suspended halfway between his plate and mouth, "whaddaya mean, 'oor Neville? 'ts just the 'esting 'edule." 

"I know Mrs. Wesley taught you better than to speak your mouth full, Ron." Hermione snaps back, her voice biting.

Ron makes a big show of swallowing before he continues.

"I was just saying that it's only the Testing schedule. What could've possibly have made him look like that, and then run out of here like you-know-who is on his ass!"

"Oh!” Hermione snarls, “You are so obtuse!"

Harry stands silently. Too busy bickering with each other, neither Ron nor Hermione notices. It's been like this almost constantly since school started and Harry's taken to just waking away when it does, because he can't stand to listen to their squabbling, and getting involved seems to just turn them both on him.

As he leaves the Great Hall, Harry pretends not to notice that he left his schedule behind.

 

There is nobody else in the corridor when Harry steps out, and similarly, none of the resident Hogwarts ghosts are floating around. Harry keeps walking, no true destination in mind- just _away_. The rambunctious noise from the Great Hall muffles the further he goes, until all he can hear is the sound of rain on the windows and his own footsteps echoing along the corridor.

The back of his hand stings and itches.

Harry reminds himself that it means the _words_ are finally healing, and forces himself not to pick at it.

Rounding another corner, the site causes Harry to stops in his tracks.

It’s Neville; huddled in an alcove with his knees pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapped over his head. He looks more than a little distraught – every muscle in his body taunt and his chest heaving as he wheezes in and out.

For a peculiar reason, Harry has a flashback to DADA class last year; of the spider being tortured under the crucio curse. 

Harry immediately goes to Neville’s side, hesitantly hovering.

“You alright there, Nev?” He asks, like an idiot. Of course Neville is bloody not all right – he looks like he’s in the midst of a panic attack. 

Neville doesn’t reply. If anything he seems to curl in on himself tighter.

He looks like he’s trying his best to shrink himself, to disappear. The site is almost as upsetting as it is disturbing.

As Harry goes to gently lay palm on Neville’s shoulder the voice of Professor McGonagall rings along the hall.

“Do not touch him, Mr. Potter.” 

Harry snaps his head up to see her striding down the corridor, robes flared out behind her. She’s upon them in seconds, standing on the other side of Neville in a way Harry can see is deliberately unintimidating – both hands in site, body relaxed, wand away.

Professor McGonagall pulls a small flask containing amber liquid from the folds of her robes. She holds right to Neville’s mouth. “Drink this, Mr. Longbottom.”

Neville numbly lets her pour the potion down his throat. After a tense moment where Professor McGonagall just stares at Neville and Harry doesn’t know where to look, Neville slumps; all the tension leaving his body. His breathing returns to normal and he looks almost sleepy.

Drugged.

A calming draught, Harry realises, it must have been; to make Neville react this way. And strong one, at that.

“You can be off now, Mr. Potter.” McGonagall dismisses. “And please tell Professor Fitwick that Mr. Longbottom will be absent from his class today, as he and I have some business to attend to.”

It’s not until Harry has automatically started moving away that he questions his actions, and suddenly he’s conflicted over what to do. From what Neville told him on the first day of class, as they sat by the lake, Neville has – somewhat - deliberate nurtured a persona that deflects anyone from suspecting him to be anything but a Gad, and running off after getting his timetable is completely suspicious. When it comes to protecting ones secrets, everyone is the enemy; even trusted authority figures. Especially trusted authority figures.

Is he a bad person if he walks away right now, leaving Neville with McGonagall? If he were in Neville’s place, he-

Harry’s thought process shutters to a stop. 

He would never be in Neville’s place. Never would he exhibit this much trauma over a stupid test. The idea he ever could is abhorrent. He is not Neville; Neville is not Harry; neither are remotely similar. Fourteen years of different life experience has made sure of that.

He starts moving again, pretends he never hesitated in the first place.

Neville will be just _fine_ , Neville has always been _fine_ , and throwing a fuss now would just look suspicious. Suspicious regarding himself or about Neville, Harry isn’t completely sure, but the thought has him almost rushing to get away.

 

Harry glances back as he rounds the corner and just manages to catch a glimpse of the stern Gryffindor Head of House wrapping an arm around Neville’s shoulders before his view is cut off.

 

* * *

 

It’s another bad day for Harry. He’s been stuck in a limbo of detention all week, and its left him little time to do his homework and practice the spells assigned to them. He’s become the worst student in all his classes; second only to Neville in everything except Herbology, and he can tell that the teachers are beginning to get irritated.

Harry’s not sure if they think he is just being a lazy teenager or deliberately conceited, but he knows that he needs to _pick it up_ lest he find himself with even more detentions. Maybe even worse.

To top it all off, Angelina Johnson, the Gryffindor Quidditch team captain, cornered him after classes and gave him an earful about missing practice before telling him that players who wished to remain on the team are expected to put training before any other commitments.

Harry wanted to yell at her, rage completely, that it’s not his choice to be stuck in a room with the great pink toad, but the words just wouldn’t come. The way Harry sees it; he and Umbridge are stuck in a private battle of wills, and the last thing he wants is for it to get back to Umbridge that he complained about her detentions.

No, he will never give her the satisfaction of knowing she got _under his skin_.

So he just lets Johnson walk away, without defending himself. Without saying anything. 

 _Because you know, deep down, you deserve to be punished._ A sickeningly sweet voice murmurs in his head. 

Harry roughly pushes off the wall, uncaringly scraping his knuckles as he does so. _To hell with it all_ , he thinks, and heads towards the library. Dinner is in an hour, but Harry has got a Charms essay to write, along with one for Professor Sprout on self-fertilising shrubs.

And a report on Jupiter’s moons for Professor Sinistra.

And four transfiguration spells to practice, on top of it all.

Dinner will have to be missed, especially if Harry expects to spend all of tomorrow at Quidditch practice to appease Johnson.

 

He remains in the library for the last few hours of the day, and some of the night as well, buried in books whilst the tables around him fill and empty. By the time Madam Pince, the head librarian, shoos Harry back to his own dormitory for curfew, he feels as if someone has been beating his brain against the inside of his own skull.

It is almost ten o’clock when Harry reaches the entrance to the Gryffindor Dorms, muttering a tired _‘mimbulus mimbletonia’_ to the Fat Lady. A few other students are still lingering in the common room when Harry steps inside, Ron and Hermione among them.

He stumbles over to the couch where they're sitting and collapses next to Ron.

“Blimey, Harry!” Ron yelps in surprise, “Where have you been all day? You just disappeared after Charms, and I didn’t think you had detention." 

“I feel like my brain is going to explode.” Harry moans, clutching one of the cushions to his face, muffling his sentences. “I’ve been in the library – studying.”

Hermione huffs, pulling the cushion out of his hands. “Whilst I applaud your effort to actually do your homework _properly_ , you can’t skip meals. And you forgot this at breakfast.” 

She flicks the dreaded off-white envelope at him.

Harry would have been perfectly happy never lay eyes on that blasted emerald lettering again, but alas, it looks like the one thing he’s spend all day trying to avoid has finally caught up with him. And how pathetic is he; to be this anxious over a bit of paper.

“Thanks Hermione.” Harry says quietly, finally picking it up.

They’re both watching him with expectance, so he carefully tears open the top of the envelope with minutely trembling hands and takes out the parchment inside. It’s good quality – thick and weighty, with more emerald ink scrawled across its surface.

 

**_Mr. Harry James Potter,_ **

**_On behalf of the Ministry of Magic, and in accordance with the Classification Act of 1856,_**

**_We are delighted to request your attendance on the 18 th of October for a personal  **Classification Ceremony**. Please present yourself at Hogwarts Infirmary between the hours of 9 am to 5 pm. If this time and date is unsuitable, advise your Head of House as soon as feasible._ **

**_Regards,_ **

**_Madam Pomfrey,_ **

**_Head Matron at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry._ **

 

It takes several reads before the date and time actually sink in.

A bit over month. 

Harry has a bit over a month before his life might very well go to shit.

“What’s your date then, Harry?” Ron asks, and Harry just hands him the letter; more that ready to be rid of it.

Hermione, having returned to scribbling away at an essay whilst Harry was reading, peaks over so she can see the parchment as well, and then hums.

“They’re trying to get us all done by Christmas holidays.” She informs. “But they can only do one or two a day, so the Testing’s being spread out over a few weeks. Ron’s got quite the wait until his.” 

“Why are they only doing one test a day?” Harry asks, an uncomfortably heavy weight settling in his navel. “The Test isn’t _that_ invasive, is it? – surely they don’t need a whole day?" 

Harry’s never heard anyone complain that their Testing was a rigorous process; in fact, everyone says it’s really straightforward. Hell, Fred and George were both Tested over one lunch period, if Harry remembers correctly. 

“No, as far as I’ve read it’s pretty routine.” Hermione agrees, and then leans close and lowers her voice, “but I think this is another thing the Ministry is interfering with.”

At their confused expressions, Hermione continues, “I think – I’m not sure, but I think the Ministry believes we can’t get into more trouble while we’re waiting around to get Tested, so they’ve pushed the whole thing out. They’re buying themselves time whilst they work out what to do about Dumbledore.”

 

Oh, of course. It makes a twisted sort of sense now that Harry thinks about it. 

Keep them all stuck at Hogwarts while they find new ways to discredit Dumbledore. Because slandering him and his allies in the _Prophet_ will only work for as long as the magical community find it interesting, and gossip stories certainly aren’t enough to get Dumbledore removed from his position as Headmaster; as is no doubt the Minister of Magic’s intent.

Why else sent one of their own to snoop around. Two weeks into term and Umbridge, the intolerable woman, has already been appointed High Inquisitor of Hogwarts. Apparently – for the _Prophet_ is hardly a reliable source, Harry would know - it’s now her duty to evaluate the other teachers, as the Ministry fears that Hogwarts is displaying ‘unsatisfactory behaviour’. 

Fudge hates Dumbledore. He, very probably, hates Harry as well, because Harry’s declaration of Voldemort’s return last year sent the Ministry into chaos for _weeks,_ until Fudge went on record calling Dumbledore and Harry mentally unstable liars. But a portion of the magical community still believes the truth.

To have Harry out there now, telling his version of the tail, disputing the Minister of Magic, would just stir up trouble the Ministry is not willing to deal with.

So he get’s stuck at Hogwarts whilst Voldemort is out there – somewhere - plotting the demise of the entire magical community. All because of this stupid Test.

 _Screw the test_ , Harry thinks venomously, _the test is hogswash!_

Harry doesn’t want to do the bloody Test anyway, and no one is going to force him.

But, to be untested is… not _quite_ illegal, but it’s hardly accepted, as McGonagall had explained it to them on the first day of classes.

Untested individuals are social outcasts; unable to buy housing, or vote, or hold a legal job. It’s like being a werewolf, or a vampire, or any other creature the Ministry considers ‘dark’ – untested individuals are considered dangerous wildcards and a threat to the order of society.

Yeah, the Ministry knows exactly what they are doing, and every action they have taken so far has been in a deliberate attempt to keep the magical community under their control.

 

“I don’t understand why this Testing thing is a big deal, anyways.” Ron says, breaking Harry from his thoughts. “All my brothers came back as Gads, and my parents are. Even Percy – _the snivelling little bootlicker_ \- is a Gad. There’s no point to me getting Tested. It’s so bloody predictable that even Trelawney couldn’t get it wrong.”

Hermione frowns, stops writing and places her essay in her lap.

“It’s a legality, Ron.” She says patiently, “People who are classified can be emancipated when they turn eighteen- but those who aren’t Tested are essentially subjugated.”

“Emanci- what?” replies Ron, tossing her a confused look. “I’m just saying that everyone throws such a fuss over this whole Testing thing when it means nothing in the end. Almost everyone ends up as Gads, and the Professors are always preaching about equal treatment and whatnot-”

Hermione huffs, the same way she does when she thinks someone’s being incredibly stupid.

“Regardless of what you believe, Ron, the Test is important to understanding ourselves and determining our future. And besides, your siblings’ grouping doesn’t guarantee your own. You might not turn out to be a Gad at all.”

She stands, rolling up the parchment of her essay and says, “It’s late, you should head to bed soon.”

After those final parting words, she leaves for the girls’ dormitories, evidently not in the mood, for once, to stay argue.

Ron opens his mouth to throw a retort after her, but when the words never form he slowly closes it again. Harry watches a complex array of emotions cross his friends face before he turns away.

“You think I’ll be a Gad, right Harry?” Ron asks after a few beats of silence, a slightly pained fault to his tone.

“ ‘course Ron.” Harry confirms, staring into the flickering flames, and it’s the truth. Harry can’t imagine Ron being grouped as anything other than a General on his Testing day. He just doesn’t have the hallmarks of any other groupings.

Ron’s loud, but no more than any other Gryffindor and not nearly enough demanding to be Tested as a Dom. He’s nothing like a Sub except when his mother is yelling at him – but everyone can be cowed by Mrs. Weasley’s raised voice. He’s not going to be a bloody Sprog, and nothing else fits, so it looks like Gad it will be.

Nothing is said between them for many moments. Harry can tell that Hermione’s comment has really gotten to Ron, but he can’t feel _too_ much sympathy for his friend. Harry’s more than a little jealous of Ron’s flippant attitude towards the Testing. He wishes he had the self-assurance to be the same.

Finally, Ron breaks the silence with a great sigh.

“Well, I’m off to bed.” He says, peeling himself off the couch. “You coming, Harry?”

Harry makes a vague noise of agreement. “I’ll be up in a minute.” 

Ron nods and heads off to the staircase leading up to the boy’s dormitories.

Once Harry is sure that Ron's fully out of site, and none of the sparse few Gryffindor’s still in the common room are looking, he grabs his letter from where it’s been abandoned on the coffee table and tosses it into the fire.

Harry’s abruptly hit with such exhaustion that he almost sways. He feels sick to his stomach in a way that had nothing to do with tiredness or hunger, and everything to do with the parchment now curling blackly in the hearth.

 

But he remains - long enough to watch the emerald ink of his name slowly be engulfed by flames, and then follows Ron upstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the comments and kudos on the last chapter, I'm glad for the support~
> 
> I hope this chapter makes sense/Harry's reasoning isn't really weird. I've written about 15,000 words for this story so far, but I still haven't gotten to the parts where Harry begins skipping his test rip
> 
> Somehow a sub-plot is developing. My hand slipped. Woops.  
> 


	3. An Accident

Harry wakes up on the Saturday of week three with his sheets soaking and his body shivering. His brain doesn’t compute what has happened for a few drowsy moments, and then it hits him with all the force of a blow from the Whomping Willow.

Lying there, in his own _accident_ , Harry’s so stunned that can’t even breathe.

He- he… His mind refuses to believe what he's done but the feeling of wet sheets around his midsection is unmistakable.

Harry fumbles for his glasses on the nightstand and rips the covers off his body, scrambling away like a rabid animal. He can’t… he can’t bear to look at his bed. At the dark tint in the centre slowly spreading outwards.

His pyjama bottoms and the back of his nightshirt stick to his skin, and as the wetness cools in the chilly morning air, it begins to itch something awful.

With his breaths coming out in short gasps, Harry yanks the curtains shut around his bed - incredibly grateful that the other boys in his dorm are still sleeping soundly – and stumbles to the bathroom.

He feels more than a little lightheaded as he throws off his pyjamas and steps into the freezing shower – not even waiting for the water to warm up.

Heart pounding in his chest, he scrubs his skin until its red and stinging. Then he scrubs it some more just to be sure. 

He though he’d gotten over this. He thought it was just a phase. It’s been weeks since it last happened.

The shower is beginning to get hot now – steam rising and the water warming until it’s at a searing temperature, but even then Harry doesn’t stop scrubbing.

The longer he stays in the shower, the longer until he has to go back and see the soiled sheets on his bed from this mornings  _accident_ , his overworked brain reasons. Hell, he doesn’t want to think about the infrequent _accidents_ he’s been having for even a second, because then he’d have to admit the stress has finally made him crack.

The _Prophet_ is right; Harry Potter is mental.

 

It’s only the thought of his dorm-mates waking up and seeing what has occurred that gets Harry out of the shower. He hurriedly towels off with shaking hands and goes back to the bedroom to get dressed, avoiding looking at his bed the whole time.

Once he’s clothed and he can’t justify putting it off any longer, he turns. The _accident_ is still there; innocuously dampening the white fabric, not having mysteriously vanished like a hallucination Harry had been hoping it all was. He takes out his wand.

“ _Tergeo_.” Harry whispers, and, for an instant, the sheets are covered in wispy blue.

Harry waits with bated breath, but it’s all for naught, because once the spell fades away the sheets are revealed to be completely dry. Not even a stain is left at the centre.

The shear relief he feels almost makes him sway but, simmering underneath it all, hatred boils to the surface. If he’d only known this damn spell last summer he likely could have avoided several awkward occurences. Harry may have been cautious to never let Aunt Petunia catch on, but trying to hide it – during the few times it happened – was a harrowing experience.

The memories of the previous _accidents_ make Harry’s breathing pick up again and he quickly banishes them from his thoughts.

 _It doesn’t mean anything._ Harry reasons darkly, remaking his bed with stiff, jerky motions. _It’s just the nightmares making me react this way._

As he stumbles out of the dormitory, he deliberately refuses to think about his dream last night. It- it didn’t seem like a nightmare... but that’s probably because his mind is blocking it out- attempting to protect him, Harry tells himself.

The other boys slumber on, blissfully unaware of the maelstrom raging in Harry’s head.

Given how early in the morning it is, there are, surprisingly, a couple of Gryffindor’s milling about the common room. They turn to stare at Harry as he rushes passed; watching passively as he smashes is shoulder against the door jamb in his haste.

Harry can’t imagine what expression he has on his face, and right now he doesn’t care if he’s fuelling the ‘Harry Potter is Crazy’ rumour mill; he just has to get outside.

2He needs to be in the air more than anything.

 

The Quidditch pitch is covered in a thin layer of frost. Autumn is upon them and it shows in plummeting temperatures and frequent storms.

Harry’s breath forms white puffs as he grabs his broom from the broom-shed. The grass underfoot crunches has he kicks off.

He soars.

Wind whipping through his hair, Harry pushes upwards. High into the air until the goal posts are just white blips in a sea of green, and the individual house colours on the stands blur into a mixture.

He keeps going, up, up and up, until he’s shivering violently and his teeth clash together painfully, and his fingers ache where they grip his broom. And only then does he let himself come down again.

Three weeks into the year and Harry’s having a hell of a time. He's struggling to decide if Fifth year has been worse than fourth, because this time last year he was being forced to participate in a death tournament for the entertainment of others. That being said, this time last year he didn’t know what it was like to watch a person die.

This time last year, Voldemort was just a distant concept who didn’t have enough fingers to point a wand.

Now he’s out there, perhaps plotting to kill someone Harry knows - someone Harry loves.

Or maybe he is killing someone Harry doesn’t, right this moment.

All because of a few drops of Harry’s blood.

 

He lets the broom glide lower, until his knees are almost skimming the pitch. Once the temptation to reach out and run his hands along the grass is almost too great, he pulls upwards again, flying towards the northern goal posts.

Harry seems to be, impossibly, getting worse at both Transfiguration spells and Charms. He spends more time in the library than anywhere else these days; constantly researching through dusty tomes and scribbling down essays, but his marks are still abysmal. The only times he scrape by with a pass is when Hermione proofreads his work and corrects it. It’s just little mistakes as well – small details here and there that build up, until the whole essay has to be tossed.

Few things are more soul crushing than spending hours on his homework, only to fail it regardless.

Harry is so over it all. He just wants to sleep without seeing death and without waking up soaking. He wants Voldemort to have never been born. He wants his parents.

He wants a hug.

Which brings Harry to the other thing that’s been bothering him…

It’s been three weeks and Sirius still hasn’t made any contact.

Harry has sent multiple letters, all ambiguously worded so they can’t be traced back to Sirius if they do get intercepted by Umbridge or her cronies. And yet, Sirius has maintained stony silence since summer ended. Not a peep. Not even a hint that he is doing all right.

Harry is torn between being sick with worry and violent with anger. Just thinking about it makes him simultaneously want to strangle someone and throw up. It’s a very conflicting feeling that leaves Harry feeling off-balance and overwhelmed.

Really, how dare Sirius abandon him like this. He’s supposed to be Harry’s bloody godfather, but the man can’t even manage a damn note? Two words are all it takes - surely that’s not too much to ask for!

 

Harry’s scar abruptly _flares_ , like gasoline on a wild fire, and it takes all of his Quidditch training to stop him from tumbling straight off his broom. He yelps, grasping his forehead with one hand and keeping his broom in a death grip with the other.

Half out of his mind with pain, Harry tries to navigate the broom gently towards the ground. He misses slightly, not that it matters with the searing agony spreading across his scalp and down his neck. It’s like a red hot poker has been pressed to his scar and all he can do is curl up on the grass and pray for the pain to end. 

It could have been thirty seconds or five minutes by the time the pain fades from pure agony into a throbbing ache – still raw, but bearably so. Harry pants into the dirt and, slowly, removes his hands from his head. He wouldn’t be surprised to later find finger-shaped bruises from how hard he had been pressing.

 _What the hell was that_? Harry dazedly wonders. His glasses, which were thrown off his face in the impact, lie a blurry meter away. He reaches for them with a shaking hand and slowly sits up.

The pain has never been that awful before. He knows it’s been insidiously getting worse since it began during the summer, but that was leaps ahead of the last incident. His scar has gone from being a sharp, but ignorable, throbbing to almost debilitating.

And Harry has no idea what to do about it.

 

So he does what he’s always done with his problems; ignore them until they bite him on the arse.

Harry takes a moment to collect himself and then he gets up. Absentmindedly brushing the dirt off his knees, he picks up his broom from where it lies, strewn. He observes the grass pigments on the front of his jumper and elbows with disinterest. This is one of his favourites, but luckily the house elves who do the laundry are amazing at removing stains – whether that be ink, grass, blood, or some failed potion concoction.

After stashing his broom in the shed, he hurries back into the warmth of the Hogwarts castle. He’s a bit soggy after lying on the damp pitch, and now he wants nothing more that to sit in front of the common room fire and give Crookshanks some ear scratches – Crookshanks permitting.

Other students are awake and lively in the halls, dressed in their weekend casuals with their cloaks thrown over the top to keep them warm. Harry steps off the staircase – which, fortunately took him to where he wanted for once – and is blindsided by a mass of pink just down the hall.

Harry can’t hear what she’s saying, but the two students she’s caught look sufficiently cowed, so he creeps away carefully - more than willing to take the longer path to the Gryffindor tower if it means avoiding Umbridge.

As he turns the next corner, he just manages to catch himself before he collides with Neville.

“Oh, hello Harry!” Neville chirps, steading the two pots in his hands. One is empty and the other harbours something lilac and _very_ spiky - and that’s twice this morning Harry’s Quidditch-honed dexterities have saved him from bodily harm.

“Hey, Nev.” Harry greets. “Heading to the greenhouses?”

Neville nods excitedly, “Professor Sprout is going to show me how to re-pot an Evioccier!”

“That’s quite nice of her.” Says Harry, amicably. He doesn’t know what an Evioccier is, and at this point he’s afraid to ask. Perhaps it’s the spiky thing Neville’s holding.

“I’d avoided the fifth floor corridor if I were you.” He adds, and mouths _Umbridge_.

Neville nods in understanding. 

“Thanks Harry!” He chirps, and then skips off towards the staircase that usually favours the third floor.

 _Strange boy_. Harry thinks to himself, heading in the opposite direction.

 

Ginny smiles cheerily as they pass in the doorway of the common room, dragging a friend along behind her, and Harry can observe only one other person inside – the rest of the Gryffindor’s are probably out enjoying the start of the weekend, or sleeping in until lunch.

“Morning, ‘Moine.” Harry greets, coming to stand behind the couch where Hermione sits so he can watch the fire dance enthrallingly.

“You missed breakfast,” She says, not looking up from the oddly shaped hat-thing she’s knitting. “You can’t keep running off like this and skipping meals. You’re already looking thinner than when we arrived at Hogwarts.”

Well, that’s news to Harry. Between the mountains of homework and the detentions, He honestly hadn’t noticed he’d skipped many meals at all; and certainly not enough to start loosing weight.

“Where’s Ron?” Harry diverts, “Still in bed?”

Hermione shrugs, “He mentioned something about the Quidditch pitch during breakfast.”

“I just came from there.” Harry frowns, placing himself on the cushion next to Hermione. The heat of the fire licks at his knees. “Must have just missed him.” 

Hermione hums in agreement, knitting a few more rows before glancing up. Her eyes roam over Harry, and whatever she sees makes her frown.

“Is your shoulder alright?” She asks suddenly.

Harry blinks in confusion at the tangential inquiry, “What?”

“I overheard some girls saying you bumped it this morning whilst leaving the common room.” Hermione says, reproachfully. “Actually, I believe _fleeing_ was the word they used.”

Harry’s immediately too jumpy to feel angry at the deadpan way she’s calling him out. Does she suspect something? She’s always seen right through him, and the Testing started this week – and now Harry’s abruptly, irrationally, worried she’s assumed a connection between his strange behaviour and _that_. A large part of his mind goes blank in fear; he finds his mouth opening on autopilot.

“I didn’t say anything, because I didn’t want to worry you, but…” Harry trails off hesitantly. Their knees are only a few centimetres apart, and Harry wants to press them together for the sake of human contact.

His shoulder does ache a bit.

“My scar has been hurting.” He blurts out, surprising even himself.

That’s… not what Harry was going to say. He was just going to sob on about the workload and Umbridge and whatever - but now one of his secrets is out and he can’t take it back.

Oh, well. It’ll certainly deflect Hermione from the _truth_ truth, at least for a little while. The sacrifice of one secret to stave the outing of another.

Hermione give him a look so unimpressed that Harry’s surprised all the plants in a three-kilometre vicinity don’t wither. “And how long has this been going on?”

Harry shrugs, “On and off since summer– oh, Hermione, don’t look like at me like that. I’ve been dealing with it.”

Oh, great, _now_ Harry’s upset her. The hurt on her face is clear as day and immediately he feels like a right tosspot.

“You know you don’t have to do it all alone, right?” Hermione says quietly. “Ron and I are here for you, and the twins- and Sirius. And the Order, and everyone else.”

There is an awful nuance to her voice that has Harry hanging his head, too great of an effort to remain looking in her sad eyes. Her words seem to sink right through him – because they are, Harry realises, the truth. And nothing hurts like the truth.

In this moment of retrospect, Harry sees that she’s only ever wanted to help, and what’s he been doing? Pushing everyone away since the beginning of the year in a fit of spite - hiding in the library to avoid his friends and skipping meal times. Using his homework as an excuse. Acting out in selfish anger and, worst of all, fear.

He screwed up. It’s a miracle they don’t hate him.

Harry lays his head upon her shoulder, forehead pressed to her neck, her pulse beating against his cheek. It’s shockingly easy; the height difference between them having diminished over the summer as Hermione hit a growth spurt. She’s almost taller than him now, and Ron towers above Harry; so when they stand next to him, he feels so small.

She smells like cinnamon and Butter Beer in a way that’s both familiar and comforting. Harry lets his eyes droop.

“I know, Hermione.” He murmurs, nibbling on his thumbnail. “I’m just used to doing things alone.”

Hermione sighs, bringing one hand up to graze across his cheek before she goes back to knitting.

She doesn’t pester him about telling Dumbledore as Harry had expected, for which he is grateful. She must have noticed the Headmasters strange behaviour as well; being absent from dinner, spending minimal time outside the headmaster’s office, avoiding students. Avoiding Harry.

He still holds a bit of weathered hope that he’s looking too much into it, but that hope is disintegrating quickly.

  

Abruptly, Harry blinks and slides of the couch. He kneels on the singed and threadbare rug in front of the fire, gazing into the flames with wide eyes.

Hermione glances up, looking at him enquiringly.

“Sirius.” Harry whispers and the fire responsively flares. 

There, at the heart of the embers, was Sirius’s glowing face.

“ _Sirius!_ ” Harry exclaims, leaning closer in his excitement. The heat washes over his face, scorching but not unbearably so.

“I can’t stay too long,” Sirius replies, in lieu of a greeting, the coals that form his mouth shift down at the corners. “I just needed to be sure you were okay.”

Old hurt sparks inside, but it’s extinguished as abruptly as it appeared as Harry has a sudden epiphany.

Now his Godfather’s smiling face is here, in front of him, Harry develops enough clarity to realise that Sirius would have been writing back after all, but any letters addressed him were probably being confiscated by Umbridge. He feels stupid for not realising it before.

“Did you get my letters?” Harry asks immediately, “I didn’t get a reply.”

Sirius nods hurriedly, dismissively. “Yes, I did get some letters, but I’ve been too busy to respond.”

Harry rocks back on his haunches, stunned, the hope in his chest shattering in a single blow.

He – he - 

“Busy doing what?” Harry snaps, all that earlier outrage blazing like a wildfire, uncontrolled as it settles deep into the crevices of Harry's soul. It burns his words as they pass his lips. “I thought you were on house arrest!”

Hermione lets out a disproving noise at Harry’s attitude, but it goes right over his head. 

“I can’t tell you, Harry, but-” Sirius breaks off when Harry scoffs, looking confused and a bit affronted.

“Dumbledore make you promise, did he?” Harry snarls, every word dripping with mock. “At least he’s talking to you, I suppose. Couldn’t offer us the same curtsy.”

“Harry!” Hermione gasps, horrified at the curt, impertinent tone.

Sirius closes his eyes. When he opens them, the embers of his irises seem to glow brighter, begging him to understand.

“He made us all take an Unbreakable Vow.” Sirius says, eyes boring into Harry’s.

Harry turns away.

An Unbreakable Vow. Ouch.

Sirius took – willingly, no less - an Unbreakable Vow which would prevent him from divulging his activities to them – to Harry, and that really hurts.

Doesn’t Sirius trust him? Doesn’t _Dumbledore_ trust him, after everything he’s been through? Harry’s hardly going to run off and join the Death Eaters if the Order lets him in on… literally _anything_. Being kept in the dark like this just makes them venerable, and Harry _hates_ being venerable.

Sirius sighs, brow furrowing, “Look, I don’t time to fight with you, Harry. Just trust me when I say that everything I’m- we- are doing is with your best interests at heart. I’ll explain everything when it’s over.”

Harry doesn’t answer, furious beyond words at the patronising implication he can’t take care of his own interests – it makes him want to beat his feet against the floor and scream.

“Now, tell me what this Umbridge woman from your letters is like,” says Sirius. “I’ve heard a few things from Remus about her- and some anti-werewolf legislation she tried getting implemented a few years back. Luckily the Council of Guardians overruled it, or Remus would be living in hell.”

“She’s a nasty piece of work, Sirius.” Hermione replies venomously. “She punishes anyone for disagreeing with her and isn’t letting us use magic. All we do in class is read from some watered-down, Ministry-approved, textbook.”

Sirius nods along with her words. “Ah, well, that figures,” he says. “Inside sources are whispering that Fudge is taking deliberate steps to avoid having you lot trained in combat.”

“ _Trained in combat!_ ” barks Harry, shock overpowering the spiteful anger keeping him mute. “What does he think we’re doing here- forming some sort of army?”

“That’s exactly what he thinks you’re doing,” Sirius confirms. “Or, rather, that’s exactly what he’s afraid Dumbledore is doing – forming his own private army which he will be able to mobilise against the Ministry.”

 

Harry... can barely process that, it’s so much worse than Hermione had assumed. The Ministry is genuinely more paranoid about a bunch of teenagers than the actual _Dark Lord_. 

Harry could live a thousand years and never comprehend the stupidity of politicians. 

“They’re pushing the Testings out as well.” Hermione says. “I though it was strange-”

Hermione cuts herself off when the door of the common room swings open and a few first years’ poor in. The first years giggle and shove each other all the way up the stairs to the boy’s dormitory, until the noise mutes with a closing door, and only then does Hermione hesitantly finish her sentence.

“-like they’re trying to keep us stuck here. 

Sirius hums, “It’s likely- but that’s not necessarily a bad thing. Whilst under Dumbledore’s command, Hogwarts is the safest place for you all, even if the Ministry is trying to sink its in claws.” 

Hermione makes an agreeing noise, but Harry rolls his eyes and slumps inwards. Hogwarts has never been the safest place for him, woe as he is to admit it. Just looking back on the past four years would give numerous highlights to attest.

And how can Dumbledore protect him if he won’t even look at Harry.

 

Sirius seems to realise how sceptical his Godson is and his brow crumples.

“Just… do me a favour, Harry. Please.” Sirius begs.

After a tense moment, Harry nods, marginally.

Sirius sighs. “Don’t do anything to draw attention to yourself– you as well, Hermione. You lot have the tendency to go looking for trouble, but try to avoid it this year. I need to know that you’ll be careful while I’m gone.”

 _Hypocrite_. Harry thinks sullenly, _asking them to stay out of trouble while he’s out gallivanting Merlin-knows-where_.

“We will, Sirius.” Hermione promises when Harry doesn’t speak up. 

Abruptly, the coals shift as Sirius’s face contorts in alarm and he disappears from the embers. Harry blinks in shock, but before he can respond, Sirius’s face was back. His expression is one of trepidation, almost to the point of agitation.

Something’s wrong. 

“I have to go-” Sirius starts, and Harry’s heart skips a beat. He might be mad at his Godfather, but the idea of him leaving so soon is almost intolerable. Quickly, the stubborn spite Harry is clinging too snuffles the feeling. 

“Wait- Sirius!” Hermione hisses, half a whisper. “Have you heard any news about Hagrid?”

Sirius frowns and his head shakes. A few sparks burst outwards from the movement.

“Had no idea he’s still missing,” Sirius says hastily. “But don’t worry, Dumbledore’s got everyone he trusts occupied with secret assignments, and I wouldn’t be surprised if that included Hagrid too. Just don’t go asking too many questions, yeah? The last thing Hagrid needs is attention drawn to the fact that he’s gone.”

“This is big then.” Hermione says after a beat, with a voice that’s small but full of finality. “Really big.”

Sirius nods, “This is it. Stay safe.”

He throws one last sad look at Harry, and then he was gone.

 

The fire splutters for a moment, embers darkening and flames shrinking, before it flares again. After a few seconds, it settles back into the gentle roar it was before Sirius’s face invaded it.

“Harry, that was rude.” Hermione admonishes.

Harry keeps his eyes on the flames and crosses his arms. The heat is beginning to make his face feel uncomfortably prickly but he couldn’t care less at this point in time. 

“Whatever.”

“Harry.” Repeats Hermione. The undercurrent of warning in her tone causes Harry’s indignation to erupt.

“He ignored me for three weeks because of Dumbledore!” Harry snaps, sounding petulant even to his own ears. “And now he’s going to ignore me for- for- who knows how many more!" 

“I think you’re being a bit unfair, Harry.” Hermione chides. “It can’t be easy for him- just think about it. He’s a Guardian and you’re his godson. He probably has to fight with himself everyday just to avoid coming to check on you.”

Harry opens his mouth and then closes it with a frown. He’d…. never thought of it like that before. Actually, he’d never given much thought into how Sirius’s grouping might effect his emotions, ever. Hell, before this year, he’d never thought of groupings much at all.

Sirius does act much like the stereotypical Guardian Harry’s imagined in his head. No, that honour belongs to Mrs Weasley – even though she’s a Gad - and Sirius isn’t similar to her even slightly. He’s reckless, he’s audacious, he’s a stereotypical Gryffindor when it comes to personal safety.

But now…

 

Over the past month, Harry has come to recognise that a lot of old magical families have strong histories of groupings, and they use that history to justify ‘superiority’ over others.

There is some social truth to it, in the sense that Doms and Gaffers – formally known as Masters - hold majority of positions in power, whilst, remarkably, only representing a portion of the population. The rarer Guardians have their own council, which overlooks the legislation of a number of topics – most prominently being Education and Sprogs. They have the power to decide if a proposed law will go before the Ministry for a vote, and if they don’t like the Ministry’s voted decision, the outcome of the vote can be overridden with ‘good cause’, whatever that means.

There are a lot of political aspects that Harry didn’t understand, but he wasn’t going to hang around ask McGonagall about it. Show no interest, reap no interest, and all that twaddle. Whatever.

But now…

 

It can’t have been easy for Sirius. His whole life, he’s tried vehemently to reject his association with the Black family, and all aspects of himself that fit the roll of the idealised Black Heir.

And yet, he was the only one in his family to present as grouping, other than Gad, in several generations; and a grouping, at that, which naturally amassed a lot of political power.

Sirius must have been beyond devastated after his Testing. It must have felt like a hex to the face and a _diffindo_ through the heart.

Now, Harry thinks he’s beginning to understand why Sirius acts nothing like a Guardian, and he empathises with him.

And ultimately, Harry realises, if Dumbledore were to come to Harry right now and ask him to drop everything to go on a special mission, he wouldn’t hesitate to say yes.

Stopping Voldemort is, and always will be, the most important priority in their lives. Until the Dark Lord is dead or they are.

Harry is trying to blame Sirius for taking the same actions he would, if he could, and that’s not fair on either of them.

 

Harry deflates, all the anger that has been building up the past few weeks leaves him in a rush. He feels awfully off-balance all of a sudden, and confused. Sometimes, Harry feels _so much_  and when the feeling fades he's left hollow and exhausted.

Hermione lifts her arm when Harry slumps into the couch and Harry automatically snuggles into her side. It’s not quite a hug, but it’s close enough to have a wave of emotion reverberating through him.

“‘m sorry.” He chokes out, raising one hand to his face so he can chew on the pad of his thumb.

Hermione runs her fingers through his messy tresses and down the back of his neck where she rests her palm for a moment.

“I know, Harry. It’s not fair, but we have trust that Dumbledore knows what he’s doing.” 

Harry nods sadly, tucking his face into Hermione’s neck as she guides him with feather-light pressure. His glasses press uncomfortably into the bridge of his nose and the corner of his eyebrow, but it’s easily ignored in favour of Hermione’s pulse under his cheek. 

“Do you think he’ll be okay?”

He can feel her nod against the top of his head, her fingers running repetitively through his dark locks. 

“Sirius will be fine." Hermione says with iron conviction. “He’s got the Order behind him, and he knows how to defend himself.”

A part of Harry isn’t fully convinced by her words, but he allows his eyes to fall closed and just breathes in her scent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the wait everyone. I've been having a pretty bad month and a half, and at this point I've lost interest in, well, most things. I'm just kind of floating by at life right now, as one does sometimes.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who commented/kudos on the last chapter, I appreciate your enjoyment.
> 
> In the next chapter, the classifications of a few more characters features, including Hermione's.


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